


In a Closet

by enigmalea



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Frottage, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, okay maybe the barest hint at plot, sort of semi-public someone could hear them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 10:40:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17042180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmalea/pseuds/enigmalea
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have found themselves in a precarious position trapped in a murderer’s flat.





	In a Closet

He’s not sure _how_ they ended up here. Well, no, he is entirely sure how they ended up here, but his brain isn’t processing all of the information. One moment they had broken into the flat of a suspected murderer to confirm a theory; the next moment they are in a closet far too small for two grown men to be shoved into because there was a key being put in the lock of the front door.

Sherlock’s breath is warm against his throat because he’s too tall to stand up straight; there’s a shelf right at his eye level. His head is resting on John’s shoulder. They are so close John can barely breathe, or maybe that’s because there’s a bloody _murderer_ in the room next to him. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, hammering with such force that if he could see he’s sure he’d be giddy. But it’s too dark to see, all he can do is feel and smell, and bloody hell, all he can smell is _Sherlock,_ that faint smell of coffee and tea and books and rosin that is so very _Sherlock,_ John thinks he might be overrun by it.

It’s too bloody hot in here, all body heat and warm breath. John swallows hard. His throat feels thick, and if he didn’t know better, he’d think he was experiencing a slow anaphylaxis. It hits him suddenly, he’s half-hard against Sherlock’s thigh, and he’s grateful it’s too dark to see, the only light coming through the thin almost non-existent crack around the door and the slightly larger space at the floor. Sherlock shifts, thigh brushing against him featherlight, and he barely strangles out a whispered, heated warning he hopes isn’t noticed by the suspect, “don’t move.”

“Why not?” Sherlock huffs. It’s so soft John’s not sure if he heard the words or felt them on his skin. Sherlock shifts and John realises with a start that Sherlock is hard against his thigh. His head definitely spins now, because this is _Sherlock._ He’s supposed to be above it all, above sex and desire and feelings, and yet the man is pressed against him in a dark closet hard and pulsing and _wanting._

Thankfully, John’s brain works under pressure because he’s able to stop himself from moaning wantonly with a potential murderer in the same flat as them. But Sherlock _moves_ and he’s pressed fully against John now and he’s _thrusting_ every inch of his turgid length against John’s and it’s possibly the best thing John has ever felt even through several layers of clothing. John is absolutely positive that he is going to die here in this flat because it takes every ounce of control he’s ever cultivated in his life to prevent himself from moaning deeply and shoving Sherlock against the wall and fucking him until he can no longer form a coherent thought, much less make any deductions.

But he manages not to do it. 

What he can’t stop from happening is Sherlock moving slightly, spreading his legs, and pulling John closer. The consulting detective seems to melt against the wall of the closet, one hand tangling in John’s silver and golden hair, pulling his head to his shoulder, the other moving to his arse and pulling their crotches together roughly.

John inhales sharply, still afraid to move or breathe too loudly in case the suspect is literally _right there_ , but now Sherlock is wrapping a leg tightly around his waist, his long leg tangling around one of John’s and he’s licking and sucking and nipping at John’s neck just above his clavicle. That’s the final straw for John. He shifts slightly, plants his hands on either side of Sherlock, firmly on the wall of the closet, and his hips begin moving, seeking more of the friction Sherlock is giving him.

Even through the layers of fabric, he can feel Sherlock growing harder, can feel the push and pull of his throbbing cock, the relentless grind of the other man seeking his own release. Meanwhile, the detective’s mouth is working wonders on his neck, sucking and licking and nipping and John is sure he can feel the capillaries bursting in protest. He’s going to have a mark.

He can’t quite reach Sherlock’s neck or shoulder since they’re fully clothed and the damned Belstaff and scarf are protecting him, and John is equal parts frustrated he can’t do _more_ and excited that Sherlock is doing so much. He’s thought about this before and imagined it would be more clinical, less… passionate, but it’s nothing of the sort.

The heat is spreading through his body, overtaking him in this already heated room; he’s sweating with the intensity. He can feel his balls pulling up, the tension building in his muscles, from his toes all the way up to his scalp. He can tell Sherlock is close, his body shuddering already, so close to the edge. The other man’s hand has a death grip on his arse and John is relatively sure he’s going to bruise.

John is past being able to breathe, his heart is close to exploding, his whole body is so close to glorious release it almost hurts… but Sherlock is the first one to tumble over, gasping loudly “John!” as the spasms begin to wrack his body.

He wishes he could see it, could witness the detective coming undone rather than just feeling it. His movements have become erratic next to John, his muscles pulled so tight John’s wondering if he’s going to snap.

“I’m close… I’m gonna cum!” he’s whispering before he can stop himself.

“Cum for me, John,” Sherlock whispers and then he bites into John’s shoulder. The mixed pain-pleasure which rips through his body is the breaking point. His orgasm starts in his lower back, with such force John half believes he’s going to be torn asunder, supernovas light behind his eyes, and the spasms that overtake him threaten to cause him to collapse.

He’s leaning against Sherlock heavily, panting deeply, unsure if he lost consciousness. His throat is raw and he wonders if he screamed. If so, he’ll be dead soon, but he thinks it might be worth it.

“John, move. We need to go,” Sherlock says in a normal voice, and John tenses, panic overcoming him.

“Shhh… he’ll hear you.”

He can almost hear Sherlock rolling his eyes as he says back, “he left four minutes ago, so _move_.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” John asks his voice only barely steadier now. He disentangles himself from Sherlock as best as he can and throws open the door to the closet, delighting in the cooler air from the room. Sherlock’s hair and clothing are disheveled, his face is pink, and he looks thoroughly debauched; John is relatively sure he looks to be in a similar state.

“We were otherwise… occupied,” Sherlock replies with a smirk and there’s some part of John that is unsure whether he wants to smack or snog that smirk off his face.

Instead, he stumbles out of the closet and adjusts himself, giving Sherlock a ‘go to hell’ look as he does so. He is sticky and sweaty and disgusting and he needs a shower. “Let’s go, John. We need to see Lestrade immediately.”

“Lestrade?” John asks confused. “I need a shower-”

“Lestrade first,” Sherlock replies, shutting the closet door, and heads quickly for the front door. It takes John a moment to start moving as Sherlock says, “we need to move before the killer comes back and decides to practice with us.”

“You’re sure he’s the killer then?” John asks as Sherlock bounds down the hall and takes the stairs down in leaps John can barely keep up with.

“Yes!”

“How?”

“I’ll tell you at the Yard,” Sherlock exclaims. John’s heart is beating rapidly, but Sherlock has slowed down now that they’re on the street and blending into the crowd. Once they’re far enough from the building Sherlock stops to flag a cab.

“Sherlock, I can’t go to the Yard like this. I’ve just cum in my pants for the first time since I was a teenager after rubbing against my best friend in a murderer’s closet. I’m hot and sticky and I need a shower,” John protests. Thankfully, there hasn’t been an empty cab yet, and John is hoping there isn’t for a bit.

Sherlock drops the arm signaling for a cab and turns on John, blue eyes sparkling almost madly, “John, believe me when I say I want nothing more to get you back to Baker Street and join you in a shower and then talk about what all this means, because you are absolutely gorgeous when you are thoroughly sated, but there is a serial killer loose in London who may right now be selecting his next victim. I thought it more prudent to leave his flat and inform the _police_ so they can make an arrest.”

John blinks rapidly, the fog clearing from his mind. “Right… you’re right, of course.”

Sherlock gives him that all too familiar smug grin, “I almost always am. Taxi!” He waives his arm wildly and the next black car pulls over to whisk them away to Scotland Yard.


End file.
